mémoire

part une

The day they met was soft, slow, and uneventful. The storm was the only thing to happen that day, and boy, was it a good thing to have happen. Dean was rushing home, head ducked, raindrops rolling down his cheekbones and his neck and his back. His bag was sliding off his shoulder, the leather strap slick with water and sliding against his leather jacket with every step. All he could think about was getting home, taking a nice, long, hot shower, making dinner, and settling down to finish watching the Indiana Jones movie he had fallen asleep halfway through. He just wanted to get home.

That was, until he bumped into someone on the street. It was a violent action too, since the man had been moving so fast. His bag fell of his shoulder, the contents falling and scattering. The man who ran into him was already gone when he looked around, so he sighed and dropped to a crouch to pick up his stuff.

"Shit," he heard himself say, "son of a - " Dean looked up at the man who was bending down to help him, and when their eyes connected he stopped speaking.

All Dean could see was his favorite color. Blue.

He felt his cheeks heating up and ducked his head, slowly gathering the school uniform that had fallen out of the bag.

"You've got a dirty mouth for a dancer," the man said, and Dean bit his tongue. This guy's voice was like freaking honey over rocks. "I mean, you weren't going to say 'son of a gun,' were you?" There was a smile hidden in the deep tones of his voice.

"No," Dean sighed, standing up again after stuffing his uniform back into his bag. He'd have to wash it again tonight, there was dirt all over it and he was half sure there was a cigarette butt stuck to the vest. "I wasn't gonna say 'son of a gun.'" He looked up, and as he did he noticed that this guy was not the type he would pin to help someone pick up their things on the street.

His mysterious helper had dark, messy hair that just hung below his ears. And by messy, I mean messy. It was still sticking up even though it was wet. His skin was tanned, like he'd been outside a lot. And his eyes, oh his eyes, they were bluer than blue. They were positively shining. His black clothing barely helped that. It was all black, and it all brought out his eyes more.

Dean already loved those eyes.

Something dawned on him at that moment. "Wait," he frowned, eyebrows coming together. "How did you know I dance?"

"Well," the guy smirked and Dean bit his tongue harder, "first off, you walked out of the dance studio down there." He paused, and Dean raised his eyebrows again, urging him to continue. "Second, you dropped these." He raised his hands, which Dean had not realized were behind his back, and exposed that he was holding one left pointe ballet shoe and one right jazz shoe, both in Dean's size.

Dean held out his hand for his shoes, frowning. "Hand 'em over..." he started, then paused and licked his lips at the image his following words brought to mind, "sex-hair."

The mystery man raised an eyebrow and smirked again, handing the shoes over. "Whatever you say, twinkle-toes."

The guy winked and promptly walked away, careful not to hit Dean and make him drop his bag again.

It wasn't until Dean got home, showered, and started to make dinner that he realized his glasses had been missing from his bag.

The next morning, Dean woke up to find the menu of the Indiana Jones movie playing and his alarm clock blaring. He groaned, hitting the off button on both the remote and the alarm, rolling himself out of bed lazily. "Rise and shine, Sammy," he said as he passed his little brother's room, rapping his fist against the door a few times. He breathed a laugh when he heard a muffled groan from the other side of the wall.